POEM FOR A DYING FISH
for Rufus, Siamese fighter (Betta splendens)
He appears to have grazed his chin, is bleeding
a slow grace note. An errant fin of red
curls off him, turns the waving water plants
the colour of pale wet donkey. At his peak, his skin
was Doris plum; fins splayed, loose and billowing
scales polished to a gem-blue shimmer. Always
a slow-motion swimmer he is skimming now
just below the surface, an upside-down dancer
of dubious grace, tethering bubbles to the meniscus
of his hour glass flask.
CB
Click here for more Tuesday poems
